Page 47 of Paths
“Yes, that, more of that,” I beg, but he lets me go.
I lose his tongue, his lips, his teeth, and his hold on me. But he does give me his weight—every beautiful muscle I’ve come to love is heavy and firm, pressing me into the bed. I bring my hands up to touch him, but I find nothing.
I frown as I look up into his blue eyes that shine brighter than they should through the dark. “I can’t feel you.”
“No, you can’t. But can you feel this?” He slides into me, and as he does, he presses on my clit that’s on the verge of igniting into a burst of hot sex flames. “Now you can come.”
I lurch awake.
Breathing hard, I lean up on my elbows to look around my dark bedroom where I’m alone. My door is still closed, thank goodness for that. My gasping isn’t quiet, and since my reality doesn’t include Grady’s face between my legs, he must still be asleep on my tiny sofa.
I fall back to my pillow and squeeze my thighs together. I’ve never had a sex dream, wet dream, or whatever it’s called. Is it possible for a woman to orgasm in her sleep? If so, I’m seriously jealous. Why did I have to wake up right before the good stuff?
I roll to my side and groan. It’s nowhere near morning. With thoughts of Grady between my legs and then inside me, I’ll never get back to sleep.
*****
“Give me a show of hands, who got Madagascar?”
Grady raises his hand low, showing the world, or at least the brewery, he knew Madagascar produced two-thirds of the world’s vanilla.
I raise a brow, wondering how he knew this bit of weird information.
He shrugs as he picks up his water. “I didn’t know that one. That was a guess.”
Grady has done everything he said he would. Last night after the nerve-racking ten minutes of imagining him naked in my shower, I watched his thick, brown hair dry into a perfect wavy mess before he ate enough for an army. He brought over a bevy of junk food, but he did eat two bananas with what looked to be a half a jar of peanut butter. I made a mental note to buy him the organic kind the next time I go to the store.
Putting the flower incident behind us, he was back to his normal self, and spent the night in my little house just as promised. I have no idea how he slept on the little loveseat Addy provided, but he said he was fine. I’m sure all of this spurred my subconscious, creating my erotic dream that I can’t get out of my head. It took me forever to get back to sleep, and the only reason I didn’t put my own hand between my legs for some relief was because I was afraid he’d hear me. Addy didn’t name my little house a bungalow for no reason—it’s small.
Still worked up into a sexual frenzy, I waited tables all day in the tasting room. Besides coming in for a quick lunch, Grady weirdly didn’t stalk me at work today. Instead, he told me he was catching up on some things, he’d be by at six-thirty, and we’d leave whenever I was ready to pay off my bet.
It’s strange how he won’t leave my side at the Ranch, but at Whitetail he doesn’t mind. I didn’t have the chance to ask him about it—he seemed in a hurry to get wherever we were going, so I barely had time to change into a pair of jeans, sweater, and boots, plus touch up my makeup. We drove barely ten minutes to Old Bust Head, a local brewery in Vint Hill that I’ve never been to.
The place was packed, but Grady grabbed my hand and found a corner table where a group of four were leaving. Not only was it packed, it was loud because of trivia night. The guy on stage with the microphone was asking questions and we kept our own score.
Grady offered to play together, smirking the whole time and said I might not feel like losing to him again. That, of course, got the best of me. I’m competitive and it was time I beat him.
It was unlike any date I’ve ever had, but seeing as though Grady is only the second man I’ve ever been on a date with, it would be different.
Right after securing our table, he took my hand again, and we left the building through the back door. There, under a huge overhang near the brewery warehouse, was a truck with the name French Kiss scrolled along the side with a mass of people waiting their turn.
After taking our place in line, I looked up at him. “What’s this?”
He tipped his head with a small smile, but spoke slowly as if I didn’t speak his language. “Dinner.”
“Like a concession stand?” I went on.
He turned fully to me. “You’ve never eaten at a food truck?”
“No.” Sure, I’ve seen them around, especially when we went to New York City on shopping trips or if I had to go to downtown Buffalo. But Vanessa Augustine won’t even eat at a chain restaurant, let alone from something on wheels. “I assumed all they sold were novelties, prepackaged ice cream bars, and popcorn.”
“Oh, Maya. This is going to be fun.” He grinned big and put an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his large frame. Turning me to a large easel sitting next to the truck, there’s a menu haphazardly scrawled on a dry erase board. “French Kiss is French food, not usually my thing, but I’ll go out of my way to eat at any food truck. I don’t care about the beer—we’re here for the food. Order whatever looks good.”
I read through the menu that included a full breakfast offering, savory crepes, fancy French bread sandwiches that would challenge Maggie’s, cheese and meat platters, and a ton of sides that sounded mouthwatering.
“They have all that in this truck?” I asked.
“No, they make all that in this truck.” He gave me a squeeze and I looked up to him. “You remember I read your background, right?”
